Midnight Art
by Liz Hollow
Summary: Baking is a science; cooking is an art. Serena is sure that she's anything but an artist. But artists get better with practice, and Serena is sure to improve if Siebold is teaching her, right?


**Midnight Art**

It was a low grumble at first. The sound barely resonated, unable to be heard above the booming voice of the armor-clad man in the front of the room. This quiet façade didn't last, however. The grumble became a roar, rumbling through the room, and I was fairly certain that everything began to shake from the sound alone.

Every eye turned to me, and Wikstrom stopped talking. I leaned forward, my face pressed against my hand as I put my weight on my elbow on the table. All of their faces were straight, with the exception of Malva, who was obviously struggling to suppress a laugh.

"Sorry," I said dryly, waving my free hand at Wikstrom to continue. "I'm hungry."

"I'll say," Malva finally spat. "No breakfast for our iron-willed champion?"

I didn't say anything in response. I tended to ignore Malva for the most part: a) because I didn't like her very much and b) because she hated me even more. I had this twisted recurring nightmare that she would come into my house and burn it down while I was still inside. Of course, it had probably crossed her mind once or twice.

But, in fact, I hadn't eaten breakfast this morning. I knew—yeah, yeah—that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, I really oughtn't skip it, one should always eat a large breakfast, etc. The problem was that I lived a good hour away from the League, and they scheduled this freaking meeting so damn early in the morning that I just couldn't bring myself to wake up fifteen minutes earlier to eat.

"Go on, Wikstrom," I suggested, and the knightly man nodded.

He had just opened his mouth to continue, still inhaling as preparation, when Drasna giggled. "Oh, goodness. How cruel." She stood then, and Malva's face darkened. "You will deny Serena food when she is clearly hungry? What kind of hosts are we?" She turned to me and smiled. "Come now, dear. I'll get you something to eat."

I wanted to remind her that these four people here—the Elite Four—were not really _hosts_. As the Champion, wasn't I technically _their_ host for the day? Sure, I came around once in a blue moon for battle conferences and meetings, but I was still the leader of the Elite Four no matter how you looked at it.

My stomach rumbled again, and I finally stood up. "Fine," I agreed, and Drasna headed towards the door. I followed after her, but I stopped when another voice interrupted.

"Drasna."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white rise from a chair. I didn't turn around when Drasna did, however, instead standing beside the door and waiting. My cheeks were already burning just from the sound of his voice. I really couldn't let him see me like this. Or, even worse, I couldn't let Malva see.

"Allow me. I do not mean to belittle your skills with a spatula, but I'm sure Serena would prefer something… edible." His voice was quiet, polite, but I couldn't help but wonder what part of that was _not_ belittling? He was normally quite kind, but when it came to food… well, he was the only one who knew best.

I didn't expect Drasna to be offended, however, and she didn't surprise me. She just giggled again, vanishing from my side. "Oh, Siebold! You're always so charming."

His expression was stoic as he stepped past me, and I bit my lip and lowered my gaze. He threw the door open without so much as a word to me, and I followed him quietly into the hallway. Only the slow growl of my stomach broke the silence, and I stared in horror at the back of his head. Why now, when I was all alone with him?

"You need to take better care of yourself," Siebold told me once my stomach stopped rumbling, and I folded my hands together. "It is common knowledge, of course, that breakfast is of vital importance to making it through the day. Additionally, refraining from enjoying a morning meal may also cause you to become hypoglycemic, at least in the short term."

"Sorry."

He glanced back at me, and I quickly looked down again. "Don't apologize to _me_."

"I'm just…" I paused when he stopped at the kitchen doors and held it open for me. Our eyes met for far too long, and I brushed past him into the room. "Thank you. I'm just not a very good cook, is all. I usually just end up eating cereal or something for breakfast, which isn't that filling, anyway. There's not really a point to having breakfast."

Siebold's expression, which was generally stoic—in fact, I wasn't sure I had ever seen him smile—turned murderous, and I quickly moved in front of the drawer with the knives. "You can't say that," he ordered, his voice louder than I had ever heard it. "Perhaps you are not a good cook _now_, but you can be. Don't be so definitive."

His face relaxed, and he pulled a sauté pan out of one of the other cabinets. I stood against the counter watching him as he hurried back and forth across the kitchen, grabbing food from the refrigerator, condiments from the higher cabinets, spatulas from the drawers… There was something frantic about the way he moved, but I couldn't help but smile at him.

"Come here."

I snapped out of it, blushing when I thought that he might have seen me staring at him with that stupid look on my face. I sighed—perhaps a little too audibly—in relief when I saw that he was facing the stove, so there was no way that he could have seen.

"I'm going to teach you how to make a frittata," he told me, finally turning around and handed me a bowl with six eggs in it. "Crack these in the bowl and beat them."

"W-what?" I asked, but he just gave me a hard look. I nodded, a little unsurely, and put the bowl down on the counter in front of me.

When I said I couldn't cook, I wasn't joking. Sure, I had made scrambled eggs before, but there was always a bit of a crunch to them thanks to the fact that I had half-burned them and neglected to pull out every egg shell from the mix. And, frankly, I didn't see the point of it. I could put a noodle bowl in the microwave with far more ease.

After putting all of the eggs off to the side, I picked one up and hit it on the side of the bowl. Well… to clarify, I _smashed_ it on the side of the bowl. I winced and watched as several pieces of the shell dropped into the bowl with the whites and yolk. Siebold, who was leaning against the counter as he observed, shook his head.

"You're holding it wrong."

He pushed himself off the counter and held a hand out towards me. I passed him an egg, and he tapped it against the edge of the bowl, and released the contents perfectly into the bowl. To be honest, I really didn't notice anything different about his method than mine, except maybe that he only used one hand.

Picking up another egg, he slipped it into my hand. Our skin touched, and I held my breath for a moment. His hand was so _warm_.

"Hold it between your thumb and middle finger. Your index finger should be right at the middle there. When you hit the edge of the bowl, pull the shell apart from the crack. I use one hand, but you should still use two," he explained. I swore that I was doing all of that, but… well, I wasn't the expert here.

I managed to crack the remaining eggs with less shells in the bowl. He was obviously not the type of guy to sing high praises, but I sort of expected something when I finished. Instead, he handed me a whisk and watched me beat the eggs.

Except, of course, I couldn't even do that right.

"Beat them. It's called 'beating' for a reason—it's not 'politely swirling'. Beat them," he ordered, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I put more force into it. "No, don't close your eyes—you'll spill it."

As it turned out, I couldn't do much right. Siebold's attitude was one of indifference throughout, but I had a feeling that he was quickly becoming exasperated by my inability to do anything right. He never stopped me, though. He let me sauté the vegetables and mix everything together, which would be easy for anybody else, calling me out only when he thought something might go wrong.

When I pulled the frittata out of the broiler and set it on the stove, I witnessed the most spectacular sight. Siebold smiled at me, his hands on his hips as he nodded. "Art," he said, but I was so caught up in his beautiful white teeth and pink lips and gray eyes that I couldn't get my mouth to move to say anything back. Instead, I just grinned, surely like an idiot.

"Grab a fork."

I snapped out of it, shaking my head as I hurried over to the drawer of utensils. When I turned back around, he had pulled a piece of it onto a plate and passed it to me. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do exactly, so I sat down at the counter and shoved a piece of the frittata into my mouth.

"It's good," I whispered. Siebold sat down next to me, leaning on his hand and staring at me. I tried not to think about how he was watching me—as I was _eating_, damn it—and ate another piece.

"Do you remember what I said when we first met?" he asked suddenly, and I glanced over at him with the fork still dangling from my mouth. "I said that cooking is an art, just like battling. Think about where you began as a trainer. If you challenged Diantha as you were when you began, you would have lost, correct? The same goes for cooking. The more you practice, the better you become. You can create beautiful masterpieces, too. Just not yet."

I didn't say anything. I wasn't sure what I could say in response to that…

Except… I _could_ take advantage of the opportunity that had just presented itself to me.

"Teach me," I said once I swallowed my last bite of the frittata. "I need practice, right? Who better to practice with than an expert chef? There's only so much that a recipe book can teach me… that's why I always get scared to cook—because I look at a recipe book, think I can do it, and find out that I can't."

At first, based on Siebold's blank expression—which had returned, much to my chagrin, just as quickly as the smile had come and gone—I thought that he might say no. And when he stood up and grabbed my plate without responding, I _definitely_ thought he was going to say no. But he walked over to the stove, put another slice of frittata on my plate, and set it down in front of me.

"Okay," he agreed, and I smiled at him. Well, it was more like I gaped at him in awe while jumping up and down in excitement and wanting to reach my hand out to touch him but somehow managing self-control even though it was hard. "I'll make an artist out of you yet. Just you wait."

I nodded. And I waited and waited and waited for the seconds to tick by until Siebold would be with me again.

* * *

I realized that it was a silly schoolgirl crush and probably not much more than that, despite the fact that I was nineteen-years-old and mature most of the time. When I first met Siebold upon challenging the Elite Four, I thought he was attractive, but it wasn't really enough to distract me from my goal. It wasn't a factor.

It was once I started seeing him on a regular basis that I realized that, yeah, he was really attractive—but he was incredibly passionate, too. When he spoke, it was like poetry. He didn't speak just to be heard, like some people I knew. He spoke because he had something of importance to share, his words like gifts.

Maybe it was just my crush fogging my perception of him, but I couldn't say exactly. I just knew that my admiration for him sparked from my respect, and eventually—well, how could anyone say how they knew their admiration turned into something a little bit more? When was the defining moment? What made the spark burn into flames?

No matter how I looked at it, it happened all the same. And, thus, I became an awkward idiot around him, which I was sure _someone_ had to notice. I was surprised Malva hadn't said anything about it yet.

It was one thing being around him in a group, though, and a whole other thing to be around him all by myself. I could maintain some sanity around the rest of the Elite Four, mostly because I could focus on them instead of him. When it was just me and him… well, whatever sanity I had vanished.

"Are you going to let me in?"

Everything returned to me all at once, and I raised my eyebrows when I saw Siebold standing in front of me—on my porch, no less. He always seemed to look the same—white pants, white shirt, but his apron was carried over his shoulder rather than tied around his waist as usual. It was this subtle change, and the tightness of his pants, that tied my tongue.

Finally, when he raised his eyebrows, I cleared my throat and opened the door wider. "Sorry. Come in."

"Hmm. Quaint," he commented upon entering, glancing around my threshold with a straight face. "How's your kitchen?"

"Um. Good?"

He didn't say anything, but instead took his apron off his shoulder and started tying it around his waist. I gestured in front of us, leading him to my—in his words, I was sure—quaint kitchen. It certainly wasn't very big. I had overhead cabinets and cabinets under my counters, and I was pretty sure the stove was electric as opposed to whatever the other type was. The only problem was that I didn't have a ton of counter space for cooking.

"So, um, what are we making?" I asked, and he crossed his arms.

"Do you mind if I look around?" he wondered instead of answering my question, and I nodded a little unsurely.

He didn't say anything as he poked around my kitchen. He opened all of the drawers, examining the contents, and closed them all again. He searched through my refrigerator, checked my pantry, and leafed through my freezer. I stood awkwardly to the side, watching as he maneuvered through my space as if it was he, not me, who lived here.

After he was done, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded stack of papers. He passed me a single page and returned the remainders to his pocket.

"Fra diavolo?"

"I want you to follow the recipe as you normally do, and I will observe. Fra diavolo is a simple dish," he assured me.

It really wasn't that reassuring, though. No matter how simple, I was sure to mess it up. But I followed the recipe, anyway, grabbing everything I needed and chopping the tomatoes and parsley and hoping that he didn't notice my hands shaking. I was in the middle of crushing garlic when I heard a strange noise, and I looked up to find Siebold laughing.

_Laughing_. I had never heard such a glorious sound before…

"I apologize," he said quickly, once he noticed that I was looking. My cheeks were burning now, and surely he saw that. "You looked so… angry. I hope you weren't picturing anyone under that knife."

"Oh, no…" I waved away the thought, forcing a smile at him. "That was just… the face I make when I'm concentrating."

That was even worse than being angry… Great.

But he was smiling now, and I felt my heart flutter. "Sorry. It was rude of me to laugh. I probably make faces when I'm cooking, too. That's one of the nice things about it, anyway. It's easy to make everything else fade away." He went serious again, the smile gone. "I apologize again. I said I would only observe, and I'm distracting you."

"No problem," I told him, but he was already back in his role as observer.

I sighed, turning back to the cutting board and pressing my knife down on the garlic again. I couldn't help but smile as I crushed it this time, though, when I thought about how he had laughed. It was surprisingly chipper, considering how monotonous he tended to be. I wanted to hear it more often.

By the end, though, I hadn't heard another word from him. I scooped some pasta onto a plate, threw a heap of sauce on top, and passed it off to him. He waited for me, sitting down at my kitchen table only once I came over.

"Don't look so nervous."

I blushed again, putting my hands on my lap and looking down at my food. "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who had to make a meal for an expert chef. I'm just hoping that it doesn't kill you."

"It won't. I would have stopped you."

I frowned. The food _did_ look okay. It wasn't like it came from a fancy restaurant or anything. I didn't add any extra finishes or anything to make the presentation better. It was just pasta and sauce.

"I'm not hungry…" I muttered, even though I was starving.

"Serena."

I looked up towards him, only to find that he had wrapped some of the pasta around his fork and was holding it in front of my lips. His expression was still stoic, but it was his hard gaze that made me open my mouth and let him feed me. When my mouth closed around it, he pulled the fork back and watched me.

It… was _really_ spicy. Really, _really_ spicy.

"I need water. I need water!" I declared, jumping up from my chair and running to my cabinet to grab two cups. I filled them with water, downed one, and refilled it.

But Siebold was eating it like it was mild, I noticed when I turned back around. He wrapped it around his fork, ate it, and got some more. I was sure I was staring at him as though he had multiple heads as I walked back over to the table and placed a glass of water in front of him.

"It's not horrible. But it's—"

He stopped, covering his mouth with his hand. It was as if the red pepper had just kicked in, and I was pretty sure he was about to shoot flames from his mouth or something. Instead, he grabbed the glass of water desperately, chugged it, and then sighed.

"It's spicy," he finished.

And he laughed again. I laughed with him this time, and when we both stopped, I couldn't help but stare at him. He didn't share his feelings very honestly… except when he was taken by surprise from something. That was what I had learned from this meeting. Otherwise, he tended to keep his emotions to himself.

Which made me think that, deep down, he actually felt a lot but kept it under control…

"Come on," he said, standing up and picking up my plate once we finished eating—with the help of several glasses of water. "I'll help you clean up."

I wondered if, by some chance, he might let me see that side of him more often. And as he headed towards my sink, I couldn't help but smile at the possibility.

* * *

"Why are we doing this in the middle of the night?"

It had been several weeks since I started taking lessons with Siebold every Saturday, and I had to say that my cooking had improved dramatically since we first began. I wasn't sure what his secret was exactly—there was just something about his method that made me feel like I knew what I was doing. The uncertainty that was there before was gone.

"Cooking is an art, as I've mentioned before," he began, placing all of the ingredients for the dish on my kitchen counter. "There are some artists who need additional… inspiration, we'll say, in order to create their masterpieces. Sometimes that inspiration is sleep deprivation. I've created some of my best dishes at midnight."

"Midnight hardly constitutes as late enough for sleep deprivation."

"You're saying you're not exhausted? I certainly am," he said with a sigh, but he smiled at me nonetheless. Those smiles had been a bit more frequent, but I wouldn't say they were common. It was like a rare treat after a couple of hours slaving away in front of the stove. "In any case, you will practice making hors d'oeuvres."

"Hors d'oeuvres at midnight?"

"Hors d'oeuvres at any time." He checked the clock on the stove. "Well, hors d'oeuvres at two. These ones take awhile. Salmon cakes."

I couldn't say that it sounded particularly appetizing that late at night—or early at morning, depending on how you looked at it—but not much did. Except pizza. Pizza could be eaten at any hour, and only guilt said otherwise. But I had learned how to suppress that guilt with ease.

Kind of like how I managed to suppress my feelings for Siebold during these lessons.

He passed me the recipe, which I had learned were actually more like guidelines. It was important to stick to some of the details, but Siebold had told me something that made a lot of sense: _cooking is an art, baking is a science._ As such, it was perfectly normal—and, in fact, natural—to stray from the recipe in order to make the food your own. I had learned an awful lot about the difference between a dash and a pinch, for instance.

Siebold left me alone for the most part, but whenever he had suggestions—_it's better to use a little bit less Worcestershire sauce; Tabasco made perfect salmon cakes compared to other hot sauces; lightly beaten eggs still means beaten_—he would chime in.

And then it was waiting time while the salmon chilled. This was always the awkward part of the day when cooking together. I wasn't sure what I could say to him. He was still, no matter how I thought about it, this incredible cook and this amazing Trainer. Sure, I had beat him at one, but…

The bigger problem was that I had thought recently that I ought to tell him how I felt. Or, at least, once I thought I was competent enough not to need a teacher anymore—just in case he rejected me. It made me even more awkward than I already was during moments of silent because he was all I could think about.

"You always make such serious expressions…"

When everything came back into focus, I gulped and took a jump backwards. Siebold had stepped so closely to me that our noses had been almost touching. He rubbed his chin, glancing me quickly up and down, clearly scrutinizing me. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, so I just turned around and grabbed the edge of the counter.

"You're the serious one," I accused, glancing quickly over my shoulder. Sure enough, his expression hadn't changed.

"I'm not serious—I'm passionate," he corrected, and I turned back around to face him, moving my hands around to still hold the counter. Passionate, sure… but he didn't really show it very well. "I know I can come off apathetic. I just prefer to focus on what I'm doing than get distracted by meaningless things."

I frowned, my grip on the edge of the counter tightening. "Are you saying that any time you show your joy or sadness or any of that—those are all meaningless moments to you?"

Siebold shook his head. "It's the opposite. Moments that allow me to share my emotions are the most precious to me—because it means that those moments were important enough to matter."

I didn't say anything this time. Instead, I thought about all the times he had smiled for me—the times he had laughed. Those moments… were precious to him, too? Well, what about this one? Surely he didn't share this with everyone.

Suddenly, exhaustion set in. This was too much for me…

"I'm getting sleepy." I smiled, closing my eyes for a moment. "But I'm not sure inspiration has set in, Siebold."

"Give it a little longer."

That was a tad much to ask, but I managed to make it through for the remainder of the wait time. The rest was easy. I patted the mix into cakes and fried them, and they were ready to go. With a little garnish, the plate I made actually resembled something edible and—dare I say it—enjoyable. Siebold could make a cook out of me yet.

"These look good," he said, and I nodded. "Go ahead. The cook gets the first bite."

I picked up one of the cakes, still sizzling from the sauté pan, and bit into it. The prep time was definitely worth it—this cake was amazing. The texture was perfect, with just a little bit of a crunch to it. It was just slightly sour, but the salmon absorbed so much of the flavor that it was like a blast of seasoning.

"Wow! I've never made anything so good! I love you!"

It was surprisingly quiet after my praise of my own food, and I wondered if it was too conceited. But when realization of what I actually said dawned on me, my eyes went wide, and I couldn't feel anything but panic anymore.

"_It_," I said quickly. "I mean _it_. I love _it_. It's delicious… was what I meant."

But it was too late. The words had already escaped my lips, and I lowered my face into my hands. Tears stung in my eyes, threatened to pour out, but I pressed my palms against my eyes to stop them. I couldn't make this any more embarrassing than it already was. To start crying would just be cruel.

"Is this inspiration at last?"

I lifted my head from my hands. "Huh?"

I barely looked up before he was right in front of me, his face as serious as always. "I told you that I would store my memory of you forever away in my heart," he whispered, and I felt a chill run up my spine. "Be honest with me, Serena. Do you believe that love is an art form of similar quality as cooking?"

Once again, I was rendered speechless by him. This closeness—the proximity to his face, his chest, his legs, his body—didn't help. I could feel his warmth radiating from him; I could see the fineness of his blonde hair, I could distinguish between the gray and blue in his irises. And I wanted, more than anything, to kiss him.

"No," I said, looking down, and he backed away from me. "No, I don't."

"I see."

I curled my hands into fists, lifting my gaze again and taking a step towards him this time. "You don't see. I can't believe that love is an art form of similar quality as cooking. You once said that cooking and battling are similar because the food disappears just like the memories of battles. You said to devote my life to fleeting moments because _that_ is art! But you're wrong—I don't want my life to be full of fleeting moments. I want the moments to be eternally memorable—like the moments when you feel something!"

His eyes lit up like flames, the smile that was like a gift presenting itself again. "What an elegant response."

I blushed, wondering if this was all in vein, anyway. "The hors d'oeuvres are going to get cold."

"It's two o'clock in the morning. The hors d'oeuvres can wait."

I couldn't say which of us made the move first. It was sort of mutual, a sort of lean towards each other. But I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he touched my hips, and I pressed my lips against his. I could feel my breath cut short, but I couldn't really think about it. I thought of Siebold, the way he felt and the way he tasted, and melted into him.

He hovered for a moment near me, our lips apart but our foreheads touching. I could feel his eyelashes when he blinked, and I smiled. It was only when he laughed that I remembered to breathe again.

"It's only two."

"Let's make deviled eggs!" I suggested, and Siebold laughed again. But he still grabbed another pan from my cabinet, handing it to me and shrugging.

"You're on, Chef."

* * *

**Author's Note:** No matter how much I try, I cannot spell hors d'oeuvres from memory. I just can't. Who came up with that ridiculous spelling? Some crazy French person…

Eh, just something cheesy since I always seem to do super angsty stuff. It's probably not all that decent, but I like the pairing and said I would write something, haha. Still not sure if this is my OTP for XY yet, which is super unusual for me to be so unsure. Oh well.

Enjoy!


End file.
